


Birds of a Feather

by IncurableNecromantic



Category: Disney - All Media Types, Jake and the Never Land Pirates, The Lion King (1994)
Genre: "you won't believe how gay this weird bird is", Humanized AU, M/M, Mouse of Cards, babysitting and all the horrors that entails, drunken meet-cutes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-09
Updated: 2016-09-08
Packaged: 2018-03-22 01:26:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,483
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3709702
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IncurableNecromantic/pseuds/IncurableNecromantic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What can he say?  He likes 'em slim and a little beaky and rocking the whole professional shawty thing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“Kids, do you know this man?”

He regretted the words the minute they popped out of his mouth. It wasn’t too far away from standard policy to ask that, and if anyone asked about it, he’d say that the way Simba stared so solemnly at the strange sight of the newcomer and the way Nala half-tucked herself away behind his legs piqued his suspicions.  But really, and he'd never admit this, most of the reason behind his asking was the simple fact that the man standing outside the main office looked nothing at all like the children. 

It was such a shame that he felt at all suspicious, too, because in any other situation he’d want to make a really excellent first impression. A torrential rainstorm was pouring outside, and the man had obviously been through some of the worst of it. But even with an almighty scowl sitting firmly on his face, the guardian at the door was just adorable: small and slender and pretty beaky, all big eyes, tight shoulders, and a sarcastic-looking mouth. The fact that he was soaked to the bone, with his dark hair dripping into his eyes and his blue dress shirt wetly plastered to his body, didn’t hurt at all.

Skully’s regret turned into immediate embarrassment when Simba looked up at him, gave him a serene, transparently coy smile, and shook his head. Behind him, Nala burst into giggles.

The man in question swept his soaked hair away from his forehead in a gesture of supreme frustration and stuck the boy with a look of such incredulous, angry astonishment that Skully nearly laughed.

“Why you little–” the man squawked.

“I’m sorry, that was a stupid question,” Skully said, trying to fit his most charming smile on his face. “I don’t think I got your name, Mister…?”

“Beekmann,” the sodden man replied, his aggravated scowl twitching into something more like a little tight-lipped little grimace as Skully stuck out his hand.

“Mr. Skully,” he said, grinning when the smaller man hesitantly took his hand. “Pleasure to meet you.”

“I thought Miss Merryweather was their afternoon teacher,” Mr. Beekmann said.

“Oh! I’m not their teacher! I just had a free period and the nurse asked me to walk them up–”

“Mr. Skully isn’t our teacher! He teaches preschool,” Simba said, disdain dripping from his words. “We’re in first grade, Zazu!”

Mr. Beekmann cleared his throat, dropped Skully’s hand, and turned that glower back on the children, full-force.

“You both look very healthy,” he said to Simba and Nala, hands propping up on his hips. “Exactly why did the nurse call your mother, Simba?”

“Nala had a tummy ache,” Simba replied. Nala blinked up at the adults, all innocence. “And I have a cough.” He faked a few hacks, badly.

“Of course,” Mr. Beekmann huffed. He looked back up at Skully. “I don’t suppose they can be sent back to class, by any chance?”

“I think the nurse would keep them the rest of the day, if you weren’t here,” he said, grinning sheepishly. “And since you’re already here…”

“Yes, thank you.” Mr. Beekmann pinched the bridge of his nose for a moment before giving Skully a thoroughly unimpressed look. Skully’s belly dipped. “This school has such faith in the testimony of mischievous six year olds.”

Skully laughed. “Ah, yes, you’re right…but I guess it’s better than the alternative,” he said, unable to be as defensive as he probably should be.

Mr. Beekmann sighed. “Well. I’m parked at the high school. Can I ask you to keep an eye on them while I bring the car around?”

“Sure!” Skully smiled. “Oh, uh, don’t you have an umbrella?”

It was dumb, and he knew it, and he was pretty sure he turned bright red as Mr. Beekmann stared at him and very slightly lifted his arms, gesturing at his current state with and giving Skully a look.

Skully laughed brightly, because the only alternative would’ve been to just hide his face in his hands. “Okay, two dumb questions in as many minutes. I’ll just wait here, then!”

“Thank you.” Mr. Beekmann gave the children one last stern look before turning on his heel to march away.

Or at least he tried to. As he’d stood outside the office, dripping, a small puddle of rainwater had accumulated. One false step and Mr. Beekmann’s foot slid out from under him, taking the man with it.

Skully moved fast. He grabbed Mr. Beekmann around the chest and held him steady, even as the man’s other foot slid and he let out a sharp little squeak.

Skully quickly set him back upright, hands damp from that sodden shirt. Mr. Beekman ran hot. Behind them, the children were laughing. “Are you okay?”

“Fine! Thank you! I’ll be right back!” Mr. Beekman darted a glance over his shoulder, shoulders tighter than ever. He flew out the lobby door and Skully was pretty sure he saw a little color bleeding across this pale cheeks as he watched the man disappear behind a sheet of pounding rain.

Hm. Skully grinned. It turned out that the rain had plastered his trousers to his body, too.


	2. Chapter 2

He’s like.

Sixty percent sure he’s got this right.

Also one thing to make perfectly clear is that he doesn’t live in a shit hole, okay. He doesn’t. His apartment is perfectly nice, everybody says so, even if the lava lamp is not even remotely ironic and he keeps the Halloween pirate skull bowl on all year long. 

He fills it with fruit, because he’s an adult, all right? (Not to mention that if he could he’d fill everything in his life with a fruit or two, know what I’m sayin’, ayyyy, self-high-five.)

Point is. His apartment isn’t like, amazing, the Ritz, a fully-functional babe lair or anything, but it’s nice, right? It’s good. Especially for a teacher’s salary! He’s like two steps from the Friendship Heights Metro and that works great. 

This place. Is nice.

But it’s gotta be his, right, because he took the Metro up to Friendship Heights and got off (or didn’t, ooh, self-burn) and kinda staggered a little, so he flagged down one of those sleek little pedi-cab dudes and had them take him home. 

He might’ve tipped him a twenty. He definitely doesn’t have his phone number, though. Damn. 

So he’s home, right, the apartment building looked pretty right from the outside and he saw his landlord company’s name on the sign, and also his key worked in the lock of Number 407.

It’s just that he thinks he’s walked into one of Scuttle’s pranks. This is just like him, seriously, to bust on in and makeover his whole apartment so that he can lift some of Skully’s stuff to sell in that—give the man credit where it’s warranted—frankly incredible junk shop of his.

His apartment looks amazing. Place looks classy as hell, nice dark furniture, little pops of tropical color here and there in, like, throw pillows and art and in the spray of flowers on the dining room table. All of Skully’s books have been put up on proper shelves instead of being piled up on the floor and sofa and end tables, and not on Ikea shelves, either. The television looks good, and there’s a stereo set just beneath it on the TV stand. The rugs on the floor are seriously nice, all fluffy and beautifully cleaned—is this Persian?—and the wine rack is quietly stocked. He’s so down with this whole open floor plan thing, too, with the kitchen and living room expanded into each other. The kitchen island’s just at hip height and damn if that doesn’t give him some ideas. The full wall painting of the city scape as seen through a balcony is going to make his landlord shit, but Scuttle did an amazing job; it looks so real! 

There’s even a framed reproduction of the Magna Carta on one wall, and, oh man, that’s adorable. Super cute little nerdy decoration to have. He didn’t even think he had one.

If he was someone he’d been bringing home, he’d totally be all seduced. He’s got to admit that this is a fantastic surprise, and he’s going to thank Scuttle for it, but if his skeleton fruit bowl is gone, there’s gonna be hell.

He locks the door behind him and flicks off the lights again. No point. He might just crash on the sofa and watch a movie until he falls asleep.

He’s just thrown himself down on the sofa and started wriggling and luxuriating when the door opens and somebody steps in. He sits up, surprised, and stares as the newcomer flicks on the light and puts down his briefcase, loosening his tie and not taking the least notice of Skully in the living room.

Oh my God. 

The makeover comes with hot and cold running cuties. 

Scuttle can keep the fruit bowl.

“Be that as it may, sir, my recommendation is still that we work the research stimulus into the amendment,” the newcomer says into his phone as he examines himself in the mirror. Skully does not blame him for looking. “It’s the only way it’ll evade filibuster. That is, assuming we can whip the Whip into whipping. I’m still waiting for a call back, as it happens, and—”

Ooh, a professional cutie. Skully hitches himself up on his elbows and cups his chin in his hands, kicking his feet in the air. 

“Oh, sir, I—” Professional Cutie frowns and tucks his phone against his shoulder and twists out of his jacket, hanging it up neatly. He pulls his tie out of his collar with a hiss of silk on cotton that just does things to Skully and stuffs it mostly into his back pocket. “But—yes, sir. Yes, sir. I’ll make the calls. Is there anything else I can do for you?”

So conscientious! Skully can think of a few things for him to do, if he’s desperate for entertainment.

“Yes, sir. Ah, ha. Yes. Good—yes, yes, you have my promise. Yes, sir. Good ni—yes, good night to Sarabi. Good night!”

Professional Cutie hangs up and slips his phone into his pants pocket. He rifles through his jacket pocket, pulls out a pack of cigarettes—naughty cutie!—turns around, spots Skully, and lets out the most adorable little panicked shriek of a sound.

“Hola,” Skully says.

“Who are you? Did somebody send you? What do you want?” Professional Cutie demands, looking almost…scared? Well, that won’t do at all!

“I could ask the same of you, sweetheart,” Skully replies, giving him a winning smile. “I’m up for pretty much anything. Come on in and let’s get to know each other a little.”

“Is this a prank? Or some kind of…” Professional Cutie flaps a hand. “Attempt at threatening me?”

“No, not at all. I’m as surprised as you are—nicely surprised, though. I’d just gotten home when you showed up and started stripping while talking to, uh, ‘sir.’”

Professional Cutie blushes all the way to his hairline, and down into his collar, too. Skully wants to know exactly how far he blushes. He wants to taste the outer borders of that blush, and all the way down, too. “I wasn’t stripping for him!”

“Well, no. Since he’s somewhere else and I was the one who got the show,” Skully says with a wink. “And what a show. You wanna get creative with that tie?”

“Who are you,” Professional Cutie says again. “Who sent you?”

“I told you, no one. I just got home. I really don’t know what you’re talking about, baby.”

“Home? This isn’t your—” Professional Cutie gives him a stern, penetrating (mmm, he wishes, ouch, double self-burn) look. “Are you drunk, sir?”

“Oh, now, come on,” Skully insists. “You don’t need to call me ‘sir’! I don’t want to be ‘sir.’ Sounds to me like ‘sir’ isn’t taking your advice, and I’m happy to do that.” ‘Sir’ doesn’t get to watch this pretty little thing get undressed. Skully will be more than happy to watch that, and he’ll take anything Professional Cutie wants to give him, advice and orders and all. He wouldn’t trade places with ‘sir,’ not for a million bucks.

“You are drunk,” Professional Cutie says. “Why are you drunk? It’s—” He checks his watch. “Oh. Ten PM.”

“On a Friday, yeah,” Skully says, glad Professional Cutie is seeing how ridiculous a question that is. 

“How did you even get in?” Professional Cutie asks, putting his hands on his hips. 

Actually on his hips. This guy definitely bats lefty. Score.

“I live here,” Skully says. “I know I’m drunk, honey, but are you sure you aren’t?”

“You most definitely do not live here,” Professional Cutie replies. “This is my apartment.”

“Hate to break it to you, but Number 407 is mine. Not that I’d mind sharing with you.”

Professional Cutie clutches the bridge of his nose. He’s got kind of a big nose, especially for being such a tasty little bite-sized morsel of a thing. It totally works for him, that nose. Distinguished. Super cute. 

Long eyelashes, too. Big nose, long eyelashes, maybe big everything else? Just sayin’.

“Yes, this is Number 407, but I promise you that you are not in your own apartment building,” Professional Cutie says. “Does this look like your apartment to you?”

Hm. Professional Cutie had a point there.

“To be honest, not really.”

“Yes. And what is the name of your apartment building?” 

“Um.”

“The street you live on?”

“Uh.”

“Nearest metro station?” Professional Cutie sighs. Skully gets the sense he might be disappointing Professional Cutie, and that’s not right at all! He’s got to do something clever and sexy, and fast.

“Friendship Heights.”

“Ye gods,” Professional Cutie says, finally moving out of the foyer and into the living room. He’s even cuter up close. Skully shifts around on the sofa and quickly arranges himself into an alluring pose. “There’s your problem, then. This is Bethesda…and can I assume you let yourself in with a key?”

“Yup.”

“That’s alarming. I’m going to talk to the landlord about this. If we have the same key-cut and lock, well! I won’t tolerate that kind of corner-cutting! I’m not comfortable with the idea that a stranger could just stumble in and do anything…” Professional Cutie crosses his arms over his chest and shudders.

“Aww,” Skully murmurs. “Hey, don’t be alarmed. Would it make you feel better if I stayed over?”

Professional Cutie snorts. “No, I dare say it would not—wait a moment.” Professional Cutie leans down to peer at him. “Do I know you?”

“You have beautiful eyes,” Skully croons, grinning. 

Professional Cutie rolls those beautiful eyes and Skully suddenly remembers—a terrific rainstorm and two mischievous kids, neither of whom looked much of anything like this metaphysically tall, spatially diminutive drink of water, this little bantam beauty, this svelte, slender little sex kitten. (Hm. Maybe not kitten. Pigeon. Yeah. Sex pigeon.)

“I know you!” Skully says triumphantly, once he’s hacked through the forest of saucy metaphors.

“Indeed?” Hauntingly Familiar Professional Cutie muses. “I think I have seen you before…”

“At work! The elementary school!”

Hauntingly Familiar Professional Cutie goes positively pale and covers his mouth with one hand. “Oh my God. That’s right.”

“Mister! Um. Nosemann.”

“Beekmann!” Mr. Beekmann snaps, embarrassed.

Oh no! Not embarrassed! That won’t do, not at all! Not after the way his rain-sodden clothes stuck to the very pretty Mr. Beekmann and proved to be such fodder for some of Skully’s own little private thoughts. Not now, when the hand of providence has just plopped him down a mere three feet from Mr. Beekmann’s lap!

“You wanna grab a drink?” Skully asks quickly.

Mr. Beekmann lifts an eyebrow at him. Just one. In a superior kinda way. Nice. “I think you’ve had plenty, thank you.”

“Okay, no drink. Uh, I know a place near here that’s still open. Wanna get a chimichanga?”

Mr. Beekmann stares. “What?”

“A chimichanga. It’s a Tex-Mex thing, like a big burrito that they roll up and then fry and—”

“No, I know what—I know what a chimichanga is!”

“Good! Then let’s go get some!” Skully chirps, and tries to stand up. He flops back on the sofa in pretty short order. “Whoo. Um. I might be a little drunk, I don’t know if I mentioned it.”

“Yes, you did,” Mr. Beekmann sighs. “In passing. I suppose it would be wrong to make the police take you home…and if you can’t remember your address, pouring you into a taxi wouldn’t do much good, either.”

“Where are you going with this, sweetie?”

“Do you happen to remember the name of this fabled chimichanga purveyor?” Mr. Beekmann asks. “I haven’t eaten yet either. We’ll have to wait for you to sober up a little, anyway. We might as well get take out, now that I know you’re a respectable member of society, if a slightly pickled one.”

“Okay! It’s Abeula’s!” Skully grins. “I know Abuela. She’s my neighbor. She can testify to my respectableness, or at least I think she will. She’s probably in bed by now, but tell whoever picks up that Skully dice hola!” 

“Yes, I’ll make sure to do that,” Mr. Beekmann replies, and sits down in one of the armchairs to use his phone. He pulls a pair of reading glasses out of his breast pocket as he searches for the restaurant, and Skully really thinks he might swoon. Especially when Mr. Beekmann starts grumbling about ‘of course it’s in Friendship Heights’ because that’s kind of the cutest thing ever.

By the end of the night, he’s calling Mr. Beekmann Zazu, although he wasn’t precisely invited to do that. When he finally gets home at like 3am, he’s managed to give Zazu his number—“Just to check that you’re alive in the morning, the midterms are coming and the last thing I need is a dead elementary school teacher last seen in my company”—and that’s all to the good, as far as he’s concerned.

He grabs the fruit bowl and takes it to bed with him, guarding his precious treasure.

He wakes up when it accidentally bites him on the nose and cackles, and he shoves it out of bed and goes back to his dreams.

Not a bad night, really.


	3. Water Hazard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A birthday gift for gunfireandagility (on tumblr.com)

“Excuse me?”

“Yeah!”

“Miniature golf.”

“Yeah! Pirate mini golf. The best one in town.”

“I would’ve imagined it was the only pirate-themed miniature golf course in town.”

“Shows what you know about mini golf. C’mon, what’s with the face? Are you chicken?”

“I’m over the age of six, Mr. Skully, so I’m afraid that particular line of persuasion does not have the power to move me.”

“Mmm, I love it when you get all superior on me, _papí._ It makes your accent go all crisp and frosty.”

“Eht-hem. In any event, if you insist we proceed with miniature golf, I should warn you that I can be… competitive.”

“Good! Me, too. I play to win.”

“Oh, I’m sure you do.”

“Well, well! Want to put a little money on it, if you’re going to be a snoot about it?”

“Money? No. I don’t like to take cash from people, it can be so vulgar.”

“Ooh, you’re pretty when you’re mean. What, then?”

“We’ll just wager favors, shall we? If I win, you’ll babysit the children on a day of my choosing. If you win… well, what would you like? Oh! Get that look off your face.”

“Ha ha ha! Well, _that_ , but also… you have to go dancing with me! Not tonight. I mean for next time.”

“Next time?”

“…oh. Uh, I mean. That’s… um, assuming there is a next time…?”

“You seem to have guaranteed yourself a next time in the very language of the bet. How clever. Yes, I agree to your terms.”

“O-Okay! Good. And just remember, if you get really desperate and need a dirty trick? I’ve been known to get kinda distracted by a particularly fine set of wiggling tail feathers. You might keep that in mind when you’re loosening up your golf swing.”

“Does putting come from the hips?”

“Oh, yeah! Where else?”

* * *

It had taken them a long time to get to this point, after all the infrequent meetings, the bumpy start, the mostly light-hearted picking at each other, the flirtation that couldn’t possibly be earnest (not coming from such an irrepressible, playful, attractive man, not at him, directed at him, when he was usually being his most frazzled and unlikeable). But at last they’d managed to simultaneously suggest an evening out to one another, and now they were here. Playing mini golf. It was not Zazu’s idea of a perfect first date, but if he were honest with himself it had been going really well.

Amazingly, astonishingly well. The kind of well that promised to leave him with a great big dumb ridiculous smile on his face when he closed his front door later tonight.

Skully had teased him about coming to the date still dressed for work, but Zazu didn’t actually have any casual clothes. Losing the jacket and tie and rolling up his sleeves was about as relaxed as he ever got outside of his own home, and when he’d suggested taking the tie off, Skully had insisted he keep it on. Something about it being attractive, maybe; not that he’d paid much attention.

They’d decided to do the activity first and then get supper, knowing that miniature golf would be more fun in twilight than at night. Zazu had hesitated at first, wondering if it was going to be very odd to see two grown men playing a children’s game with no attendant urchins, but Skully had talked with perfect familiarity to every staff member they’d encountered, and Zazu wondered why he’d ever even thought to worry.

It was a family-friendly environment, and so far neither of them had dared to wrap their arms around the other and help them “practice their swing,” which was certainly a good thing, since Zazu would absolutely not endure Skully getting so fresh with him. On the other hand, it seemed that there was still a little room for leaning over and whispering things filthy things about strokes and balls and holes and shafts. Zazu had always been weak against puns and more than once he found himself stifling laughter and ignoring the way that kind of egregious over-the-top buffoonery sent a delicious little thrill up his spine.

And the competition! Zazu liked competition, liked winning. He knew how to keep the trash talk light and clever and not too mean, and when Skully laughed at what he said it felt good; almost as good as sinking the ball and scraping just a little bit further ahead.

It had all been so very easy. He’d been expecting the flirtatious banter, sort of, and the minor aggravations that being around such an openly effervescent man might inspire, but he hadn’t been prepared for the way it was so natural and so pleasing to respond in kind. He felt himself smiling, his shoulders lowered and loose, his quips razor-sharp and well-received. He felt good. He didn’t harbor any illusions about being admired, per se, but he certainly felt _liked_.

And he liked Skully all the more for it.

So, all things considered, he absolutely should’ve seen this coming. Skully botched his putt, earning himself a long series of faux-sympathetic tongue-clucks from Zazu.

“So, you’re usually free on Saturdays, I should think?” he asked, all acidic sweetness.

“Oh-ho-ho, don’t get cocky, _papí._ I’m coming for you,” Skully teased. “Wait till you see my bank-shot.”

“Mm-hm.” Zazu carefully lined up the shot, crouching down to eyeball the terrain before standing up again and shaking his hips to loosen them up. Just a little, little bit.

He heard Skully’s low whistle behind him and tried to stifle his grin as he turned to take him to task over it. As he moved, he felt his foot catch on something –- a ball, it must’ve been, what else could it have been, but how? –- and suddenly lost his balance.

For a moment he windmilled his arms in the clear air, flapping frantically to regain his equilibrium, but his weight was too unsteady and he promptly fell backwards. Over the green. Into the water trap.

_Splash!_

The next thing he knew, Zazu was sitting there in the glorified puddle, swamped and mucky and drenched in gruesome mini golf water. From the corner of his eye he could seen how his spectacular entrance had wrested a decaying cigarette butt from the depths of the water trap and caused it to float merrily across the surface of the murk until it bumped his knee and began to sink once more. Water dripped from his eyebrows down off of the tip of his nose. It smelled like rancid chlorine.

Zazu looked up at Skully. He was still standing on the green, putter in hand, staring with surprise-widened eyes at what must have been an uniquely graceless ass-first plop into the tiny lagoon. He was partially lunged forward. He’d tried to reach for him.

Zazu’s throat tightened. His heart sank to commune with the rotting cigarettes and he knew he must be showing his mental state all over his face, but there wasn’t a thing he could do to conceal it.

Skully was going to laugh. How could he not? It was the stuff all great physical comedy was made of! He was even still in half of a suit! How perfect.

Oh, and he was going to have to walk out to the parking lot like this, a total raging mess, and accompanied by a man like… well, Skully. Everyone was going to think what a shame it was that such a bright, attractive man had gone and connected himself to a walking punchline. And forget about dinner -- this date was ending in the next forty-five seconds, and if Zazu could ever look him in the eye again it would be a major achievement.

He knew this was too good to be true. Why was he even surprised?

He swallowed hard and tried to choke back the gall that was quickly rising. He wanted to be able to laugh this off, but he was already prepared to be angry and hurt before he’d even been insulted. What might have been barely endurable in a professional setting completely defied even a pretense of dignity on a date in which he had, however prematurely, begun to invest emotional capital. Damn it!

Of all things, he found himself longing for the children. Their laughter would’ve been mean-spirited, but it would’ve been an innocent mean-spiritedness; now he was going to have to face the helpless, pitying laughter of someone who knew better than to laugh but who couldn’t help their hysterics at the sight of his absolute, unintentional ridiculousness.

Zazu sat and watched as Skully stared at him for three horrible heartbeats. He looked surprised, worried, concerned, and then finally somehow determined. He began to move.

Skully began to lift the putter. Zazu felt a moment of unwarranted outrage; he was going to offer the putter for Zazu to pull himself out? That was an implicit insult, as if he were too disgusting to touch! (Never mind that he was.)

But instead Skully dropped the putter to the ground and stepped forward.

Zazu watched, shocked, as Skully deliberately tripped over the putter and threw himself into the water trap, landing inches away from Zazu and flooding him anew with swampy water.

“Augh!”

“Crackers!” Skully cried out. “Sorry, babe! You okay?”

Zazu gawped and felt himself gawping. “Did you--”

“Tricky turf! I think there’s kind of a weird slant to the green.” Skully wiped a hand across his face. “Some sort of funky variation in the terrain. Ugh! Oh, this is grooooss.”

“I--”

“C’mon, _papí_ , let’s get back to shore.”

“Hey, you two!” one of the staff members shouted. “Get out of there!”

“What, you think we want to be in that? Gimme a break!” Skully replied, pulling himself up towards the green. “We tripped!”

“How the h-heck did you trip into the water trap?”

“It’s your funky terrain, man! This must happen all the time!” Skully pulled himself out onto dry land and wrung out his shirt.

Zazu sat and stared at him. What on earth could’ve possessed him to…?

“Hey. You are okay, right?” Skully asked, a smile beginning to form on his mouth. He held out a hand. “C’mon. You’re soaked. Y’know, I’m even gladder I made you take off the jacket, now.”

Zazu snapped out of it. He lurched forward and took Skully’s hand, pulling against his arm as Skully leaned down and helped hoist him back up onto the green. Zazu clutched his hand tightly and, before he could think about it, pushed up onto his toes and pressed his mouth against Skully’s. Skully’s mouth was soft and dry, despite his splash, and he felt wonderfully warm against the evening air. He felt so good.

For his part, Zazu imagined that he must probably taste disgusting. It was just… everyone else he knew would’ve laughed. And no one would’ve ever gone and thrown themselves in after him. Maybe they didn’t want him to be embarrassed, but they’d never embarrass themselves to save him from it.

He just thought that maybe Skully really, really liked him.

Zazu remembered himself almost immediately and pulled quickly away. The last thing they needed was to get yelled at for kissing in public, so soon after having taken an illicit dip. He let go of Skully’s hand and glanced at him, almost smiling at the way Skully remained stuck in the same pose, eyes once again wide with surprise.

“…thank you,” Zazu said. He cleared his throat. “I didn’t want to have to push off of the lake bed. God only knows what all’s down there.”

Skully’s eyes flicked over to him, as if only now noticing that he’d moved. “Yeah,” he squeaked.

Zazu rolled his eyes. “Oh, pull yourself together.”

“Can you blame me?” Skully asked, straightening up and grinning. “Look at you! I didn’t think you were the kind of guy to kiss on the first date! You wild animal, you!”

“That was hardly a kiss,” Zazu shrugged. “Now what did you do with my ball?”

“Nuh-uh. It’s my turn! You swung your putter when you were falling. It totally counts.”

“…where is my putter, for that matter?”

They looked down in the lagoon. The club was clearly visible under some two feet of water.

“Well, I’m not getting it.”

“No way.”

Zazu scootched out a foot and kicked his golf ball into the cup. “There.”

Skully’s mouth popped open. “Cheater!”

Zazu smiled thinly and shrugged his shoulders. “Weren’t you saying something about the unnatural variations of the turf? It just rolled in. Physics!”

“Pft,” Skully said, and then again for good measure, “pft. What a load of crap. You know, you’re lucky you’re cute when you’re soaked to the bone.”

Zazu hastily crossed his arms over his chest. He was wearing a white shirt. “Ah, ha, speaking of which… perhaps we could wrap this game up and get indoors? It would be stupid to catch a cold over this.”

“Right, right,” Skully said, running his golf ball down the green with his putter. It plinked into the hole and he stooped to pick both balls up. “Here. I’ll forget that you’re a dirty cheater--”

“I beg your pardon!”

“--since I’m sure you’re addled from the plunge and aren’t really yourself. I have a blanket in my car, and we can conceal this little, ah…” Skully gave him a remarkably fond lascivious leer. “Wet t-shirt incident. We’ll just have to have a rematch. Sound good?”

Zazu felt his face grow warm, but it wasn’t embarrassment. Or, if it was, only a little. “Yes. Fine. If you’re really that desperate to avoid a loss tonight, it wouldn’t be sporting to distract you with my body, now would it?”

“Won’t know until we try.”

“We will have a rematch. I think I can be generous enough to allow you another opportunity to make such another uninspiring spectacle of yourself.”

Skully bit his lip and waggled his eyebrows. “Ooh, yeah, you’re so mean. Go on, get real supercilious, _papí_. You know I like it!”

Zazu rolled his eyes. “Oh, for God’s sake–” But Skully was already laughing; bright, warm, nice laughter.

It occurred to Zazu that he was something in the way of a sap.

“C’mon. You’ve definitely earned a free drink, and I think I know a place where they’ll serve you even if you’re wrapped up in an emergency blanket,” Skully offered.

“Safety orange always was my color,” Zazu agreed, and smiled when Skully laughed again.


End file.
